


Of Potions and Purity

by Legendaerie



Series: Spell It Out [5]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gen, Pureblood Culture, idiot teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: Over a simple study session, things get a little... intense. And it was shaping up to be such a good day, too.
(Set around sixth year)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Found this mostly finished in my drafts, polished it up and am posting it on mini-vacation. Happy Halloween! I give you NOTHING pleasant.

York has a remarkable talent - one of several, actually, not that she’ll tell him that - for finding the perfect places to study. Out of the way but not entirely secluded, their current nook is in a currently disused classroom with a series of tall windows overlooking the lake. They’ve dragged a long table into the rose-gold sunlight of early evening and are sitting on either side of it, reading questions off to each other. It’s a good day.

Or to be correct, Carolina is reading to York. It’s painful for him to read for long periods of time, so they’ll drill each other verbally when they have the time. It helps them both. Even if her little brother occasionally leers about her ‘oral sessions’ with the Hufflepuff.

She crosses her legs at the thought, and forces her focus back on the issue at hand; Potions of Fate and Fortune. “Name… oh, three of the possible outcomes of a bad batch of Felix Felicis.”

York heaves a sigh across the table, leaning forward and stretching. “Let’s see… Explosions,” he peers up at her, one eye a clear blue to make the lake envious and the other faded like frosted glass, as she holds up two fingers. “Explosions are kind of expected, though.”

“Keep going,” she urges, and his scowl makes three long pale scars around his left eye twitch, the grim reminders of that day on the pitch. 

“Um, the petrification of one’s throat?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” she prods. 

York gives her a dry look. “The petrification of one’s throat,” he repeats with conviction, and she lowers another finger, “and misguided luck.”

“Which can lead to?”

“Accidental suicide from an incorrect sense of invincibility.”

Carolina lowers her fist. “Technically, it’s petrification of any body part that comes in contact with a bad batch, not just the throat.”

York groans and rolls his eyes.

“... But I’ll give it to you. Just this once.”

Just that easily, he flashes her a grin. “You’re the best,” he purrs, crossing his arms and resting his chin on his elbow. Cat-like, he seems to be enjoying the warmth of the setting sun and presently stifles a yawn with his hand.

“Don’t,” Carolina laments, “it’s contagious.” But her last syllable is distorted with a yawn of her own anyway, and she kicks him lightly under the table.

“I think you’re thinking of the Midas effect,” he continues, “which I didn’t list. It’s different from the petrification, because the Midas effect just coats everything in a layer of golden film.” York heaves a sigh into the crook of his arm, gaze flicking out the window. The sun is nearly set, with the lake flashing red and rose and gold as the sun retreats, leaving the night sky to creep across the horizon like a slowly spreading purple stain. It’s a beautiful evening, and Carolina follows his gaze to study the scenery as well. 

“I knew that,” she huffs, because she did, she’d just forgotten it at the moment. “A toxic golden film.”

“I thought it was suffocating?”

“No, it’s toxic. Slowly leaches corrosive fluid into whatever surface it coats. Kills living things, decays most other materials. Only thing it can’t harm is…”

She happens to look back and York is staring at her; Carolina catches a flash of an almost pained expression on his face before he hides his face in his arm, jaw flexing with another yawn and cheekbones warm in the ruby-tinted light.

“What?” she asks. He shrugs and sits upright, clearing his throat.

“Just thinking we should take a break. Wanna go get some tea from the kitchens?” York is already rising from his chair, scarf and books left on the large desk, as if he assumes she’ll follow. And she might.

“Won’t we be in the way of the elves?” she challenges, though there’s little bite in her tone. Tea is very appealing.

He shrugs, not meeting her eyes. With a sigh, she rises and follows him, trusting no one to disturb their notes. Even if Texas is eclipsing her - something she tries and largely fails not to be upset about - she’s still moderately known and respected across the houses.

His pace is a little slow on the stairs, one hand on the rail; his depth perception is worse when he’s tired, and York yawns again. Carolina edges to his other side and is tempted to offer him her elbow. His disability is new to her, too, and she’s not sure yet how much help is too much.

“This is usually their slow time,” York details, keeping his eyes on the stairs as they descend. “It’s past a reasonable time for afternoon tea, but still more than an hour before dinner.”

He’s put a lot of thought into this. “You’ve learned their schedule?” she asks.

“Well, yeah,” and a glimmer of a smile lights up his profile. “The dorms are, like, right across from the kitchens.”

“Yet this is the first time you’ve taken me,” Carolina teases as their feet hit the landing just a little out of sync. 

York presses his shoulder against hers and grins. “Not my fault it took you four and a half years to really talk to me. I’d have taken you sooner, if I thought you’d come.”

Oh. She had almost forgotten the years she’d spent in bitter, one-sided rivalry against the irrepressible boy whose chief mistake had been being Muggleborn and stumbling across her one time when she’d been crying. It had been her second year and she’d gotten some scathing marks on an Herbology essay; such a fragile ego for a twelve year old, and York’s compassion had stepped all over it.

“It’s just the kitchens,” he continues, and nudges her again. York’s expression is a little softer now, an apology unvoiced in the uneven set of his smile. “Nothing fancy.”

“If I wanted fancy, I’d let Wesley Hargrove take me out to dinner.” 

York stumbles.

She stops in her tracks and throws him a look over her shoulder. His face looks a little pale. “You all right?” she asks, regretting not offering a hand before.

“He asked you out?”

“Of course he did.” Carolina’s concern switches to irritation. “Why do you seem so surprised?” As much as she tries, from sheer ego, not to care, she notices when other boys find her attractive. Is he trying to imply that she’s unlikable?

“I just--” York swallows and gathers his robes around him, walking on ahead. “I’m surprised you said no.”

“He’s an asshole, of course I said no.”

He catches up with her, his expression unusually intense. “Aren’t you both from really old wizard families? Wouldn’t it be, I don’t know, expected of you to--”

“We’re not formally betrothed or anything,” Carolina finds herself matching his frown. “I can still say no.”

He falls silent, staring at the ground, and almost passes by the kitchens if she hadn’t stopped dead at the turn and cleared her throat. She’s not about to greet the house elves herself when this wasn’t even her idea, and allows York to enter first.

Carolina has heard some of their names in passing, but has never taken the time to get to know the elves. So when one of them breaks into cheerful cries of “York’s here!” and six more suddenly appear in the room, she’s a little taken aback.

“Hey, Theta,” York greets the speaker, a little smile pulling at his mouth, “can we get tea for two to go?”

“Sure!” The elf seems to take notice of Carolina, then, and takes a step back. “Um, would you like your usual?” he asks, stiff and formal.

“Uh, no, let’s do--” York flicks a glance her way. “Jasmine green?”

“Right away,” Theta blurts, and zips away. The rest of the elves have already resumed their work, and Carolina is left to stand awkwardly in the kitchens, watching them. They’re not looking at her in the obvious way that means they’re extremely interested in what she’s doing; the ones that aren’t cooking are cleaning, the ones that aren’t cleaning are organizing, and poor Theta bounces between occupied workstations before vanishing into what she presumes is the cellar. Seems York isn’t the only one hung up on her last name today.

On a good day, like the one she thought this was, Carolina might have preened and been buoyed by their respect. Today, it just makes her fidget.

Once they’ve received their basket and are heading back upstairs, surrounded by the sweet scent of steeping tea and the faint notes of some finger sandwiches, York brings up the topic again.

“You said you’re not formally engaged.”

“Shouldn’t we be discussing homework?” she presses back, adjusting the weight of the basket in her hand.

“I’m learning things about magical culture,” York replies, but the joke falls flat under the weight of his tone. “You’re informally engaged?”

Carolina rolls her eyes, dragging her fingertips along the handrail as they begin their ascent. “He’s an old family friend. One of several. And he’s not that bad,” she adds, for honesty’s sake. “Some of them are worse.”

“So you  _ would  _ date him.”

“I might. It’d make my father happy if I married another pure-blood. Keep the line going. It’s not demanded, though. We’re not  _ that  _ medieval,” and she almost dares him to tease her about that. They go to school in a castle, they write on parchment with quills; the school’s hardly changed its methods for a century. Carolina may be out of touch and disinterested with the Muggle world York inhabits half the year, but she knows about it.

But York is silent until he pulls the door to the classroom closed behind him. “What about a half-blood?” he asks.

“Focus” Carolina scolds, setting down the basket and half tempted to flick ink at him.

“I will. Last one, I promise.” He takes his former seat and starts unpacking their tea, eyes fixed on his task and his tone like paper, flat and fragile at the edges. “Theoretically, could you date a half-blood?”

“Theoretically, whoever I date is my own damn business. Certainly not yours.”  Even on a good day, she doesn’t like people making assumptions about her due to her parentage. And, if she’s honest, it stings to see York of all people so fixated on it.

It’s obvious that her words stung - he slides a hefty volume of  _ Intersectionality of Beverages In Fortunetelling: From A to Tea _ and props it up so she can’t see his face - and stays quiet, hand snaking out only once or twice to take something from the tray. She doesn’t care. He can be as hurt as he wants if he’s going to mire himself in magical blood politics for no reason.

It’s the darker side of the magical world, one she doesn’t want to deal with just yet. While she has the time, Carolina would like to shield York from the mess that is her family, hide from it like children under a blanket fort for a little bit longer.

Unlike York, no matter what time of year it is, she can’t escape it. After all, she is the Headmaster’s daughter.


End file.
